Prisoner of War
by mistaken-identity
Summary: Penn finds herself in a prison camp in Germany. She is no longer pretending she's a prisoner, she really is one.
1. Prisoner of War

"I'm telling you, this is neither the time nor the place for practical jokes, Sergeant!" Sergeant Jamison Finch yelled at his rival, Sergeant Buddy Stern.

"Aw, lighten up, Jamie. We were just having a little fun." Buddy shrugged, and brushed by Jamison on the way back to his bunk. 

Jamison followed Buddy. "I do not call having all of our cabins searched because someone decided it would be fun to give the guards ink candy. Giving them black lips does not inspire kind feelings towards us." 

Buddy turned around to face Jamison again. "When do they like us? Never! A little prank just livens things up."

Jamison frowned. By now, the seven other prisoners had gathered around the stove, far away from the argument. "Liven things up? You nearly had our new tunnel discovered!" 

"I didn't know about any tunnel. So how was I supposed to be cautious?" Buddy threw his hands into the air.

"You should _always_ be cautious. You can never tell when we have a tunnel started, or when we need the guards less vigilant to carry out our escape. Think, Sergeant."

Buddy glared at Jamison. "You think, Jamie! We slave here all day under these Jerries, and then we stay up half the night doing heaven knows what. We need a break."

"Says who?" 

"Says everyone! Right, men?" 

Nearly all the soldiers gave their support to Buddy's statement. Two were silent because they weren't paying attention to the quarrel and didn't hear the question.

Jamison rolled his eyes, catching sight of one of the men lying on his bunk. "Boyd, what are you reading?" 

I looked up, keeping the place in my novel with one finger. I glanced at the navy paper cover, typical except for the lack of a title. "Nothing, sir."

Narrowing his eyes, he focused his attention on me instead of Buddy. "Boyd? You certainly cannot be reading 'nothing'." 

I rolled my eyes. Trust him to start in on me. "Sir, I mean that it is of no importance."

Jamison came over, the standing seven moving quickly out of his way. "Boyd, you should not speak to a superior officer as such." 

Why did he have to say that? I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't. "When you become a 'superior' officer, I'll stop with the smart ass remarks."

"Boyd, that is not appropriate." Jamison tried his best to look authoritative. There was reasons why he was only a sergeant; this was one of them.

"Stick to the script, Jamison." I noted the page—seventy-two—and shut the book.

"Me stick to the script? There was nothing written about you staying on your bunk." Jamison was growing flustered, he dropped his English accent to speak like the American he was.

Sighing, I slid my book under my blanket discreetly. "There wasn't anything about 'Sergeant Finch notices Boyd's book' either."

Jamison made a frustrated sound and stalked off the set, muttering to himself. "I can't work like this. I just can't work like this."

"Aw, Penn, what'd you do that for? Now we'll never get through the scene." Buddy flopped down on the bunk across the room. I sat up, bare feet unable to reach the floor. I hate being short. 

"Buds, it wasn't my fault. We've been stuck on this scene for the past two days because 'Sergeant Finch' wants it _just so_." The sarcasm was clear in my voice.

"Hey, who decided to make James pull the diva act?" Michael Robertson poked his head out of the officers' quarters, or as he used them, the director's observation room. Robertson didn't like to draw more attention to the fact that there were cameras recording our every move, and so kept himself away from the action. 

No one said anything. We had become really close in the five months we'd been shooting together, mostly because we all had something in common—dislike for James Philippe, onsite Sergeant Finch. 

"Come on, guys. Really, who was it?" Robertson crossed his arms. He was young; barely twenty-two. _Prisoner of War_ was his first big project, and we all hoped not the last. He did try to keep everyone satisfied, and allowed our input on scenes. Unfortunately, that was also what got us doing one scene for two days straight. 

I stepped off the bunk. "Sorry, Rob. I'm just so sick of reading on my bunk."

Robertson shrugged. "Well, James wasn't happy with things, and since he's a principal character…"

"That's no reason to make _us _suffer for it. Make him practice in his dressing room if he wants to be happy with it. _We_ want to do something new." I crossed my arms over my chest, with the rest of the cast agreeing, standing resolute behind me. 

"Fine. I can see that, I'm sick of it too. Let's do…" he consulted the clipboard, seeing what scenes didn't require James, "twenty-nine. Cards. This is for, um, Buddy, Roxie, Pete and Penn."

I shrugged and dropped down on the bench. Anything was better than doing yet another take of Buddy and James' argument. "Five card, aces high?" I asked, waiting for the confusion to cross the other players' faces. It wasn't long in coming. 

"Okay," Roxie was the first to speak, "Penny, we know you're the resident hustler, but please, go easy on us."

"Yeah," Pete said, accepting the deck from Robertson, "you're the one who's supposed to suck at this."

I grinned, "Too bad for you I don't," and waved the hand now wearing Pete's plain silver ring in his face. "All right, we'll play euchre," I said, cutting out the lower cards, the unused portion of the deck. 

Roxie picked up her five cards. "Okay, girls against guys."

"I don't want to play with Pete!" Buddy complained, but he did pick up his cards. "He isn't any good, and he always tries to cheat."

"Suck it up, Buddy. I'm playing with Roxie, and I have to pretend I'm the worst player ever." I rearranged my cards. 


	2. Drama Class

"Okay, everyone, stick to the script this time." Robertson stood behind a camera to check the angle, moving other 'prisoners' around the room, moving us to slightly different positions to easily get close-ups. 

"Um, Roxie, move your glasses down your nose, and Pete, smooth your hair down a bit." They complied, and Robertson walked around to get a different angle. "Penn, would you mind not wearing your hat inside? This isn't winter anymore."

I hesitated. "Actually, Rob, I think it would be better if I left it on."

He gestured impatiently. "Off with it, Penn."

Shrugged resignedly, I pulled off the red white and blue knit toque and immediately heard gasps from the collected party. "Penn! How could you do this?" Robertson approached me almost reverently, as if he were reluctant to believe my hair was now indeed bright fire engine red, with purple streaks. They were hard to miss.

"Well, I was bored, and since I usually have to wear a hat anyway to cover up girly hair, I figured it wouldn't hurt anything." I really didn't see a problem with it. Of course, it could just be a sign of rebellion.

Robertson sighed, holding out one purple section straight from my head. I pulled away, and it fell on top of the other chin length strands. "Leave off, Rob, it's not that bad. I'll just keep the bloody hat on, and no one's the wiser."

Retreating off the set, he gave up as I pulled my hat back on. "I suppose so, Penn. Just keep in mind you're supposed to be Scottish, not English."

"Same island, isn't it?" I smiled over my shoulder at him. At least he hadn't noticed the black fingernail polish. 

"Not the same accent, though." He walked back through the set into the officers' quarters. I laughed good-naturedly at him as we reset ourselves to do the scene. I'd known Robertson since I was fourteen and he first began recruiting people his own age to join his 'Drama Class,' an acting company that did all their own stuff on their own.

It's been nearly ten years now, and Drama Class has finally taken off. I think it was so attractive because of the various nationalities of the actors. It was just like a secondary school fine arts production, with many different kinds of people. We all played a variety of roles as well, since there were only about twenty-one of us available, not including crew and Robertson. So that meant with a script like _Prisoner of War_, the girls played men's roles, just like drama class. Robertson was smart. None of us could decide to quit the current project, or the Class unless he said we could. We signed a contract, and we were responsible for its upkeep. 

I was one of the first to sign, so I got certain privileges that others didn't. I got first pick of roles, and, like the episode with my hair, I could get away with more than someone like Peter. 

"You're awfully quiet, Penn," Roxie said, peering carefully over her glasses at her cards. 

"Aye, I'm concentratin'," I said, checking my cards carefully. I had to. I wasn't allowed to win. Tough acting, this was.

Pete nudged me. "Your turn, Penn. Take it before the war ends." I jumped as he did so, spilling my cards all over the table. 

"I fold!" I announced, just as Benny came running 'into' the cabin.

"That's good!" Robertson said, cutting the scene there. James emerged from his room, looking like he was over his display of childishness. Robertson came over to me. "Be nice, Penn. This should be the _last_ take, understand?" 

"_Jawhol, Herr kommandant_." I mock saluted him, slipping off the bench and returning to my bed. 

Robertson paused on his way back to the officers' quarters. "Very funny, Penn. Enough with the German already or I'll recast you as a guard."

I smiled to myself as I pulled my book out of its hiding spot. I let it fall open to page seventy-two and settled in to read. Despite the fact I loved to read continually getting me into trouble, I couldn't help it. _The Three Musketeers _was one of my favourite books. 

"Penn," Roxie whispered as she sat down beside my bunk, "we came to a vote. Stop flirting with Michael; you're making us all sick. Besides, none of us girls can get a chance with you around."

I just looked at her. "Flirting? You think?"

She nodded. "Yeah. We all do." She looked over as Buddy and James began arguing for the seventh time that day, over the same thing. Lowering her voice, she continued. "I mean, it's obvious you two have something. We just want to know whether you're going to carry through, or make all of us hang around." 

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I tugged my boots off, using the end of the bunk as a pry bar. "Whatever, Roxie. So we flirt. Get over it. It's all in good fun, and if he wants something, he'll do something. I won't. Live with it." 

I realized I wouldn't get any reading time with an answer like that; I pulled the book over my face and ignored the sound of her voice.

While I was thinking about how uncomfortable this uniform was and wondering why people couldn't just wear pyjamas all the time, I heard the sound of wood splintering. I should know, I helped build the set. 

Pulling the book off my face, I stared in shock as James clobbered Buddy across the head with a board. James pulled the now-unconscious sergeant onto his bunk. I frowned as I noticed James' uniform was different. He turned around, and I nearly freaked. What do you know, it wasn't James after all. Okay, I was doing a bit of freaking. Just not out loud, more of a what-the-heck-is-happening, I'm-sorry-for-whatever-I-did-to-deserve-this-even-for-putting-gum-in-Jenny's-hair-in-grade-one begging on your knees type stuff. 

"_Noch, planend auf dem Erklären jeder, bin ich ein Spion? Unwahrscheinlich_," the man who wasn't James after all said in German, then with a cautious look around, stalked out of the cabin. 

As soon as I heard his footsteps retreating, I moved over to the unconscious man. He wasn't Buddy, but at this point, I'd be more surprised if he was. I peeled back one of his eyelids, thinking about what the homicidal one had said—in German, no less. 'Still planning on telling everyone I am a spy? Unlikely.' If I was still in a POW camp, that probably meant he _was_ a spy.  


	3. Eavesdropping

Did Robertson decide to change something? It was the only thing I could come up with, but he usually talked these major plot changes over with me. And I didn't think this guy was faking unconsciousness. 

Hearing footsteps outside the door, I quickly dropped flat to the floor and moved underneath the unconscious sergeant's bunk. 

_Oi, stupid,_ I cursed myself silently as the door opened. _Could you think of a more obvious hiding spot, genius? Under the bunk is always the first place they look, and then you'll be found out. I'm going to die before I figure out where I am. _

Two people entered. The one with blue pants leaned against the support post near the middle of the cabin, with the other wandering around the bunks—probably checking underneath them. I moved further to the back, ignoring the feeling that I was probably lying in years of dust. I hoped I wouldn't sneeze. 

"I told you, Newman wasn't in 'ere," one spoke in a bad English accent—Roxie's was even more convincing, and she was bad. Austin Powers bad. I mouthed 'groovy baby, yeah' underneath the bunk and smiled to myself. 

The one over near the other side of the room stopped and returned to this side of the room. "I was sure that I saw him come in here, though. He didn't come out, so I thought he'd still be in here."

I could almost see the Englishman rolling his eyes. "You should be more observant then."

"I'm trying…" Obviously neither was all that observant, if they didn't notice the unconscious body above me. I tried to roll my shoulders, growing sore from sitting on the hard boards in one position. It hadn't been long since I'd first fled to the relative security, but I could practically hear my neck protesting. I carefully laid my head on my arms, crossed in front of me. I barely noticed the clink of my Celtic cross as it hit the boards. 

"What was that?" Apparently they were learning to be observant.

I heard the footsteps cross closer to the bunk. I heard the unconscious Argentinean…no wait, wrong movie. Anyway, I heard the unconscious one moan a bit, tossing a limb around and knocking something metal over. "Its just Williams."

"He's out like a light!" The American sounded amazed. Typical. Not like he's never seen a man who's been broadsided by a plank for finding out about a German spy before. Okay, neither have I, but that's beside the point. _I _didn't sound so amazed. I think.

"What's this?" The Englishman said, and squeezing my eyes shut, I hoped he wasn't looking under the bunk. "That's a nasty bump."

I almost sighed in relief. Almost. 

"I wonder what it was from?" I was beginning to notice that the American spoke really innocently. I mean, who wouldn't suspect the mysterious Newman? I would, even if I didn't see him clock Williams. 

"Or who did it." The Englishman said suspiciously. There was a guy after my own instincts, despite the bad accent. I imagine others think my Scottish one is just as bad. 


	4. First Impressions

The door swung open, and the two men jumped away from the bunk. "Newkirk, Carter! What are you doing in here? These are not your barracks." This newcomer's diction was incredible. I instantly loved the way he rolled his r's. 

"Schultz," the Englishman said charmingly, "we were just visiting Williams, 'ere. 'e's feeling a bit under the weather."

Schultz, I'm assuming, was the one who just entered. Made sense, yeah. German name, German accent. "Okay then. Have you seen a Corporal Boyd? The Kommandant wishes to see him."

"Corporal Boyd? I don't recognize the name, Schultz. Sorry." The American.

"Who?" The Englishman.

If that wasn't my cue, I could no longer be part of _Drama Class._ I slid a little ways closer to the outside of the bunk, grabbed the edge above me, and pulled myself out. I ended up facing the two men who were there first. I was right—one American and one English, at least according to their uniforms. Grinning, I spun on my heel to face a vast German. Even from my "diminutive" height of five foot one, this guy was huge. He'd shop at the Wide and Tall store. Enough description.

There was an awkward moment when I forgot I was a soldier and stuck out my hand for him to shake. He almost did, remembered he too was a soldier, and left his hand still stuck out and waiting. I smiled, and saluted—not the one-fingered that I was so fond of, unfortunately. 

He returned it. "Corporal Boyd?" 

"Aye, sir." I cursed my accent. If the Englishman was Austin Powers, I was Fat Bastard. Not literally, size-wise I was more like Mini-me. Enough Austin Powers references! I command myself. 

"The Kommandant wishes to see you." I could see this sergeant as a mother hen, he held himself like a proud chicken on a litter of chicks, or whatever they call it.  

I smiled. "How opportune. I was wishing to see the Kommandant."

The German was at a loss for words. I took pity on him. "Should I follow you?" 

"Yes, yes," he said, then turned to the other prisoners. "And stay out of trouble, you two!"

I didn't look back as I followed the portly sergeant out. "You came in this morning, ja?" The sergeant asked, walking rather leisurely. 

I decided to see if this German was as unobservant as I got the idea he was. "Nein, spät heute nachmittag."  

"You came late this afternoon? That is why the Kommandant has not seen you yet. He was eating lunch." He nodded self-importantly and opened the door to the office. "Hello, Hilda," he said to the blonde secretary. I rolled my eyes, and stood there with the sergeant awkwardly until the inner door opened to reveal a man of medium height, balding, wearing a monocle on his right eye. 

"This is the new prisoner, Schultz?" He looked at me carefully, but I didn't think he'd figure out I was a girl. "He's rather little, isn't he?" 

I rolled my eyes, not caring if he noticed my contempt or not. He practically screamed incompetence. 

"No, sir, I think LeBeau is littler." 

"Are you sure? This Corporal looks very, very short." I sighed impatiently over the Colonel's reply.

"The Cockroach is smaller, this one is just wearing a hat." 

Moving around the portly German, I walked past the Kommandant and headed into his office. Ignoring the stares I felt on my back, I sat down on the chair in front of his desk and propped my feet on it, staring at the laces. How I wished for my skater shoes. I could slip them off right now, and then not have to worry about tying them, and just slip them back on again, and then I would stop worrying about losing the feeling in my feet, and I got about another inch on my height. Oh, for my shoes.

The Kommandant cleared his throat behind me. I looked over my shoulder without expression. "Please, sir, come in, have a seat. Make yourself at home."

He glared at me and moved to sit behind his desk. "I ask the questions, Corporal."

"All right. I'll give you…" I pulled a number from the air, "six."

"What?" 

"You can ask six questions. Well, five."

He frowned. "I am a Colonel, I do not take orders from Corporals."

"That's an awfully pedestrian way of viewing things," I smirked as his expression changed from displeasure to confusion back to displeasure. It seemed at home on his face. 

"I am Colonel Klink, kommandant of Stalag 13. Your new home." He took some sort of twisted delight in telling me this. Being an actor, you learn to read emotions. This guy could come in handy the next time I had to model an incompetent. 

"Oi, really? I never had a real home," I leaned forward as if telling him a secret. "I was in and out of boarding schools since I were seven, and finally now, in Germany of all places I find meself a place to call me own. D'ye mind if I call ye da?" Okay, so maybe I was laying it on a bit thick. Still, it was fun to watch his expression. Oh, the da comment! Besides, I needed to practice my Fat Bastard. Why couldn't Boyd be a Canadian? My nationality of choice. 

"Of course you cannot call me that. I am your superior officer." 

"Oops, my bad." I shrugged and leaned back, the Scottish orphan act forgotten. 

He looked like he was going to ask me what I meant by that, but instead chose a more traditional path. "Where were you captured?" 

Four left. "I have no idea. Sorry, mate."

"Were you aware of any plans for any attacks?" He was persistent, I suppose, in a strange way. Three to go.

"Um, don't think so. Wait, wait…" I rubbed my chin, "wait. I think there was one to get Evil Peter, but I think we scrubbed it. No, we did have plans still."

"Plans for what?" Two questions remaining.

I couldn't look him in the eye. He was just so eager. "Pillow fight."

He sighed angrily. No wonder. I was just being a pain in the

The secretary from the outer office walked in. "Colonel Klink?"

"Yes?" He replied without looking from my oh-so-captivating visage. 

"There is a matter requiring your attention out here, sir." He sighed and got up, casting me a warning look. He shut the door firmly behind him.

I waited for about seven seconds before getting to my feet and taking a look at the room. Peering carefully at the helmet on the desk, I realized then that I was whistling. But what song was it? I continued. "Hogan's Heroes Theme." I moved closer to the wall to examine wallpaper. 

"I know you're listening," I said in a singsong. I really didn't, but if someone was, they'd be all freaked out. "_I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not from around here. I'm from the best country in the world, and never let anyone tell you any different."_

I turned as I heard the door open again, with the Colonel behind it. He came back over, standing behind the desk this time. I didn't sit, but stayed next to the wall to observe him more carefully.

"Who was your commanding officer?" One…

I shrugged casually. "You have one question left. Michael Robertson. He was great, really, he didn't treat us like flowerpots, you know, just there to look at."

His cautiously interested expression made me continue. "He never made us call him sir, or stuff like that, you know, like most of the guys like him do. We got to tell him what we thought, and in return, we let him win at ass…butt…er, President. That's a game," I clarified. 

"I can still remember the last thing he said to me." I pretended to wipe away a tear. 

He raised an eyebrow. Obviously he was keeping in mind he only had one question left.

"It was something to the effect of…enough with the German already, or I'll make you one."

"You speak German?"

"Yeah…I do. I also speak English, really bad Quebec French, and some Spanish. School was boring, but at least I became trilingual. Sort of."

I stood and brushed off the front of my shirt. "If that's everything, then…"

"You cannot go!" He stood as well, alarmed. I _was_ a cocky corporal, wasn't I?

"Why not? I gave you your six questions."

"I told you before, you do not ask the questions."

I held up a hand. "I know, I know. You do. So I let you."

"Very well, then, as long as that is understood." 

I shrugged, flopping back down into the seat. "Go ahead."

He frowned. "I do not require your permission."

"Of course not." Oops, cut the patronizing. Bad Penn.

"I have seen your records, and as such, I would require your clerical services

I thought a moment, ignoring his displeasure at being kept waiting by a mere corporal. Of course, I guess I wasn't. A mere corporal, I've been a general once, near the opening scene of _Prisoner of War_. "Isn't that a little trusting of you to give me a job like this? Doesn't it require a little test of my loyalty or something like that?" 

"Normally, but my secretary needs help filing, and we cannot afford to hire anyone else. You said yourself you speak German."

"Okay."

"What?"

"Free labour—all right! Go for it, Herr Kommandant!" I gave him thumbs up.

"You should respect my rank!" He leaned over on the desk, probably to threaten.

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, I respect the rank. It's the Nazi part I don't give a sh—"

"Out! Go back to your barracks. Sergeant Schultz will instruct you on when to help Fraulein Hilda."

"I won't stand for this!" I tried my best stuffed-shirt nasally English accent and threw my shoulders back, insulted. "I'm going to look for my shoes." I pretended to toss a cape over my shoulder, and pranced out of the office.


	5. Summer Camp

Midway out the outside door, I turned back to the sergeant—Schultz, I believe. Got to remember that. "Um, Sergeant." I tapped his arm. He was like Andre the Giant to me. I hate being short! Although it does have its advantages, like people never thinking that you need to buy longer pants. Or that your socks are ugly.

"Yes?" He asked, much like a favourite uncle of mine. 

I tried not to look too embarrassed. "Could you direct me towards my, um, barracks?" 

He smiled. "Of course. This way." He started down across the compound. Maybe I could get used to this. Or maybe not. This was prison. "These are your barracks. Eight."

I stared up at the small hand painted sign. Eight was my cabin number back home. Creepy. I thanked the sergeant and went back inside the open door. The unconscious Argent—man was gone, but there were two others sitting at the table in the aisle between the bunks. I stopped for a minute, scanning the bottom bunks for the worn cover of _The Three Musketeers._ Spotting it, I flopped down on the bunk. 

"You're new, aren't you?" The one facing my way said, tipping his back off his forehead. 

"Aye," I didn't move from my sprawl.

The other turned around. I was relieved to see neither was one of the ones from before my big entrance from under the bunk. "You were in the kommandant's office for a long time." 

I shrugged. "Yeah, ask the guy a question about himself and he just keeps going and going."

The first narrowed his eyes. "Don't you know you're only required to tell your name, rank and serial number? You were gone too long for just your compulsories."

"Oh, right, name rank serial number. My bad." I shrugged, opening the book to somewhere around page two hundred.

The second shrugged as well. "Drop it, O'Neil. He probably doesn't know enough to talk about anything."

O'Neil glared at his friend, giving me one last suspicious look before getting up and leaving the barracks. The second guy turned around on the bench to face me. "I'm Sergeant Curtis." 

Watching his hand for just a second, I realized that I was supposed to be civil. "Right. Sorry. Corporal Penn Boyd." I grasped it and shook firmly. This was weird. I couldn't remember the last time I shook someone's hand when I was introduced. Um, I think it was the minister for the last Christmas church service I attended. I was seventeen.

"So you already had your interrogation by Klink?" He smiled; obviously this was some sort of inside joke. 

I smirked. "If you can call it that. More like I was being clever and he grew cross. Rather quickly."

Curtis laughed. "I can see that. Klink isn't one for keeping his cool."

"Never would've guessed." He looked at me for a moment, then realized I was being sarcastic. I tried to remember some of the questions that were written for the new prisoners. "So how long have you been here?"

"Too long," he laughed, "much too long. It's been I think about a year now."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you haven't tried to escape?" Usually at that point one of the others would make a crack about 'not for lack of trying.'

"Nope. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13 successfully."

Taking note, I shrugged in acceptance. "I'm not one to mess with tradition."

He looked slightly surprised. "What did the colonel say when he heard that?"

I scratched behind my ear underneath the hat. "Um, Klink? Nothing." 

"No, no, I meant _our_ colonel. You know, the commanding officer."

"Oh. Haven't met the guy yet."

Curtis raised both his eyebrows. "Really? He tries to talk to everyone before they go into Klink's office. He missed you?" 

I stood up. "I'm kind of hard not to miss."

"You _are_ short," he sounded amazed. 

"Should I be insulted?" 

"Nah. You're not the shortest one in camp. I think."

"Wonderful. I'm second shortest." I grabbed an olive green hat off my bunk and pulled it firmly around the other. It was the kind with the flaps that you could tie up or over your ears. I chose neither, leaving them standing out like some type of odd semaphore. 

"Nah, it won't be that bad. Listen, I gotta run and meet some guys. Can you find the way yourself?" he moved closer to the door. He probably couldn't wait to get away.

I shrugged. "Sure."

He went through the open door. That was interesting. I didn't think I had anywhere else to be, so I decided to return to the bunk and read a bit. As I settled back with a good view of the door, I realized that this seemed a lot like summer camp. There was your bunk and your little area of personal space, you shared with people you've never met, and how you know that despite the fact you lived there, you would leave. And the fact that when I went to camp I sat in the cabin most of the time and read sparked a few less than pleasant memories.


	6. They're Not Lunchables

Covering a yawn with the back of my hand, I looked at my wrist for the time, realizing as I checked that I had left it off that morning. Looking over the room, I noticed someone lying on his bunk. I must not have heard him come in. 

He looked up, catching my gaze. "Private Tom Francis," he said by way of greeting. I smiled. "Corporal Penn Boyd." 

I sat up, leaving the book on my bunk. I'd finished, I wouldn't need to use it for a while, if someone decided to "borrow" it. 

"D'ye know the time?" I asked, noting again my feet didn't reach the floor on this bunk either. 

He pulled his sleeve back to reveal a bare wrist. "Nope, sorry. We don't usually stand on traditional time keepers here."

I nodded, thoughtful. He stood and stretched. Tying a bootlace, he continued speaking. "It's almost time to head to the mess hall anyway."

Nodding again, I happily checked my own shoes. Happily, because I had found my shoes underneath my bunk. Sure, I was out of uniform, but that was all right. I had my shoes.

Heading to the door, he waited a moment so I could fall in step beside him. "Don't prison camps usually have one cook per cabin?"

"Usually, but we don't feel like heating up all the cabins when the weather is like this. Too hot to cook." He shrugged.

"So you cook eggs on the sidewalk?" I glanced sidelong at him.

Francis laughed. "Hardly. We just sit together around outdoor tables. The Germans say the heat wave'll break soon, so then we'll eat inside again. They'll like that as much as we will."

Stopping a moment, I thought about it while looking at the type of tent they had set up temporarily, the same type of table as in the cabin beneath it. Along the longest wall, they had several tables with pots of assorted size on top. The men standing behind them serving looked sweaty and tired. I was really hungry now. Note: sarcasm.

I'd never really eaten much, and as a result had a horrible case of anorexia nervosa when I was a teen. Two psychiatrists, four group therapy terms and three cases of rehab, and now I was back to point a. Wonderful. 

I stepped underneath the tarp that was being used as a roof and fell in behind a tall man dressed in green. Tilting my head, I noticed that most of these guys looked overly warm. The temperature only looked to be about 25°C. This wasn't bad, considering. I supposed, those, if this was a German prison camp, they would no longer be used to hot weather. My eyes watered as the wind shifted. Any wonder why these guys weren't fresh as daisies?

Picking up a bowl at the end of the table, I took one step, waited, then took another step. I watched the man ahead of me in line to see how this thing worked. He held out his bowl, received a scoop full of something that didn't look half bad, was given a roll, and headed to a table.

"Kaiser bun," I said under my breath, examining what was in the soup pot before I moved another step forward. Definitely not Lunchables. Raising an eyebrow at it, I gave the man with the spoon an unconvinced look. "What is it?" 

He gave me a look of his own, trying to judge, I suppose, who I was. "Dîner." 

I shrugged and held out the bowl. "Obviously. I coulda figured that out meself." 

"Then why didn't you?"

"I was jest tryin' to be friendly. Trouble, I'm not friendly."

"I would say. You're not very good at it."

"I said I wasn't." I stalked away, knowing that it was all an act. I didn't really care. I moved towards the table in the far corner, one that didn't seem too full. I was only five feet away when all the men moved over a bit, getting rid of all the room on the bench. 

"Very mature, _men_," I said under my breath, but very sarcastically. I kept my pace, moving to the end of the table and sitting on the only available space—the end of the table itself. My back to the rest of the prisoners, I balanced the tray on my knees and looked with some trepidation in the bowl. 

It was probably edible, but I just wasn't into eating heavy meals. Like Conrad, for example. My very, very best friend, my partner in crime, my accomplice, probably the only one I trust with my secrets. Now Conrad, he could eat. He's one of those meat and potatoes kinds of guys. He's too much of a guy sometimes, but I loved him to bits.


	7. Your Dear Sister, Hitlery

I looked up from the bowl to see a man standing before me. Big surprise. It's not like this entire camp was full of men or anything. He stood there casually, hands in the pockets of his brown bomber jacket. I gave him a cursory once-over, then returned to my meal. It wasn't more interesting than he was, but I didn't want to be the one who began speaking first. I just hoped it didn't contain any meat.

"You know," he began conversationally, almost to himself, "tables weren't invented to be sat on."

I grinned, tongue stuck out of one side, kept in place by my teeth. Evil Peter called it my 'someone's gonna get it' face. "I suppose. But I don't really feel like dancing. No shimmy show tonight. My apologies." Taking a sip from my mug, I held it up for a moment longer than necessary to hide my smirk. 

"I wasn't asking for a show." He frowned.

"Well, sitting on tables and dancing on them are about the only things I know how to do with them. Well, there's cards, but I didn't think that's what you meant."

He gave me a wary look, probably wondering why I would dismiss card playing and not dancing. "Maybe I should start again. I'm the ranking officer here. You have a problem, I'm the one who takes it to Klink."

"The middle man becomes a glorified position?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Seriously, that's what it sounded like. The middleman is supposed to profit, though, right? Yes, that's right. Like Nike and child labour. The first man, the impoverished children, get zip. Nike, the middle, gets millions of dollars a year. The final man, ignorant consumers, ends up paying Nike millions. Nice system. 

"No, it's just the way things work in the army." 

"Aye, aye, Skipper," I saluted with my hard-as-rock dinner roll. I noticed that slowly, the other prisoners were keeping their own noises down to listen. "Let's be friends. I'm Corporal Penn Boyd." 

"Colonel Hogan." He emphasized the Colonel part, seemingly waiting for some type of reaction. 

I stared at him for a moment. "Is that supposed to inspire hero worship or something?" Obviously, it was. Nearly all the men—including those that had been at least civil before were now looking at me with disbelief and something akin to horror. With eight words, I had become the enemy. So be it.

"Well, no," the Colonel said, almost reluctant to continue the matter, "but a little respect would be nice. I am your new commanding officer, Corporal." 

I shrugged. "Oops, my bad." I noticed a frown of either confusion or consternation appear on his forehead. _Odd,_ I could almost hear him thinking, _he doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact I am his commanding officer. No respect._ He would be wrong. I had plenty of respect for those who earned it. Others received sarcasm. 

"You shouldn't alienate people on your first day here. For a long term stay, it's nice to have people you can talk to." He said, trying to stare me down.

"I'm not planning on staying long," I picked my roll back up and bit a tiny piece off. I couldn't chew. It was Chevy bread—like a rock. 

"An escape?" He raised a single eyebrow. 

"Nah," I said, "I'll probably just die trying to chew this bread." I spit it out and aimed for one of the guards' helmets. The Colonel frowned like a disapproving father. 

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat further on the benefits of a disciplinarian society, but I have to go burn things." I smiled and slid off the table, pressing the tray into his hands. Sauntering off out of the makeshift "mess hall," I bumped into the badly accented Englishman on my way out. Leaving for a quiet spot to kick-box, I couldn't prevent the devious grin on my lips. Luckily, no one could see.

-

"What'd you get, Newkirk?" Carter asked as the pickpocket returned to their table. 

"A letter," he said, unfolding it. "Let's see what our latest addition has in correspondence…

"My dearest Adolf," Newkirk began, then stopped. He looked at the paper again, oblivious to the others' urging to continue.

Colonel Hogan sat back down at the table. "A letter, Newkirk?" 

"Aye, sir, from Boyd. But it's…" He paused, unsure of how to phrase it.

"Well, don't describe it, just read it!" 

Newkirk nodded and began again. "My dearest Adolf,

"This is your sister, Hillary. How are things in wondrous Germany? I think ruling countries is in our blood. Of course, you rule for yourself, I must rule through my husband. Can you believe that dummkopf? 

This morning, I was having this most wondrous dream about finally being able to take over another country and uniting the Americas once and forever, when I wake suddenly. He'd turned off the alarm! I slept in this morning, and I had to be…well, he reminded me then that he'd not been president for a while, and that meant I didn't need to make him my puppet. Of course, he didn't mention the puppet thing. Again, it runs in family, the puppets. None of your loyal soldiers truly realize what you're up to. 

"Thatsa is getting…bigger. Oh, I hope you remember her. She's…well; I suppose I can divulge my secret to you. Thatsa is not my daughter. She is the illegitimate love child of my husband, Unibill and Nastiella Grossage. You remember her, she was at our birthday party? She dressed up as Winston Churchill. Oh, the look on your face! Actually, there is quite the resemblance. She's the cousin of Monika Shrewhinsky, the one who nearly got dear Unibill impeached? Well, she seduced him, and this is what happened. Thatsa. She's a darling child, ugly as sin, but lovely all the same. She doesn't have her mother's fashion sense, I've taught her all about the potential of the swastika as an accessory.

"I suppose I have gone on long enough, Adolf. I still can't believe how we're identical twins. Unibill says he can see the resemblance more now that I have the moustache. Dear, here I go again! I shall go. Really, I shall. Oh, one more thing. I have legally changed my name back to what it was before I was adopted. 

"Your dear sister, Hitlery."

The five prisoners of war sat silently around the table for a moment. Hogan was the first to break the silence. "There is something very suspicious about that Corporal."


End file.
